Critics come in all shapes and sizes; I have come to know this quite well. However, while celebrating Christmas I was surprised by one pint-sized pendant who showed up in an unusual place.
Our story begins in the kitchen, where I was doing some holiday baking. I love to bake cookies, especially at Christmas. It reminds me of being a kid. Back then, helping Mom bake meant getting to lick the batter bowl and the mixer beaters. We didn’t worry about raw egg in the dough. The biggest hazard we faced was not waiting until the beaters were detached from the mixer. Hit the wrong button while giving those a lick and it’s tongue-tied city!
I was working on some gingerbread men. They baked up nicely—crispy on the edges and soft in the middle. Sort of like me as I age. I normally don’t decorate my gingerbread cookies, but this time around I wanted to up my game with some embellishment.
I whipped up some royal icing, which left a royal mess in the kitchen. You have to be careful with the confectioner’s sugar. Open the bag the wrong way and you get a snowy kitchen. The only upside to that is that those snowflakes are sweet when you catch them on your tongue.
I loaded my piping bags. One with white for the eyes, mouth and sleeves. The other with red for the buttons. Not having piped icing before, I approached the task with some nervousness. Given the results, I would have been better off loading the icing in a pipe and smoking it.
With slightly shaky hand, I piped on the eyes. They looked pretty good, but two small dots don’t make one a cookie artist. Next the mouth, sleeves and pant cuffs. It was coming easier now. Confidence was building. Now to grab the red bag and pop on the buttons. Just three more dots. Easy!
I stood back to bask in the glow of my handy work. I anticipated I would know how Michelangelo felt when he gazed upon the finished ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Somehow, I don’t think I felt what he did. His work didn’t offer him any critique. Mine did. Apparently, I missed the mark on the consistency of the royal icing. The sleeves were blobby and a wee bit large. Plus, the smile that had been cheerful upon application had spread on one side. My gingerbread man was now smirking at me.
Critics are an occupational hazard in my line of work. When most folks have a bad day at work—and everyone does occasionally—few notice. When I have one, many folks are all too aware and eager to point out the misstep. Back in the old days, the phone would ring and you could bet the only request they might have is “get off the air, you idiot!” Now, we have email, social media and texting so people don’t have to conduct an audible conversation to tell you that you’re a goof. Better living through technology.
Before you email me that I need to grow a thicker skin, too late. I’ve already done that. I do not ask for sympathy. I accept that this sort of thing is part of the job, and I am willing to take it. In many cases, it works to make me better. Besides, I am harsher on myself than anyone could ever dream of being. Just ask my wife and co-workers; they’ll back me up. But a Christmas cookie?
It was as if he were saying, “do you see what you’ve done? I can’t go out in public looking like this.” He had a point. It did look like a third-grader had done the decorating. I realize that’s a bit of an insult to third graders, but I mean no harm.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Given my poor penmanship, I should have known something like this would happen. I was taught cursive in elementary school. Taught but not learned. My teachers said it looked more like hieroglyphics. Talk about being born in the wrong time period. One high school teacher nicknamed me “Chicken Scratch.” I didn’t argue with him then or now.
I blame it on the DIY culture that is pervasive on all the television shows these days. They make it look so easy to rip out and replace your entire bathroom with a screwdriver and cordless drill in just 40 minutes plus commercials, or make a gourmet dinner with just a spatula and a can of Spam. Make no mistake, I am glad to see more of a can-do attitude returning. It’s what got my parents through the Depression, WWII, and the rest of their lives. They place these programs under the heading of reality television. The reality they contain is that craftsmanship is best left to experienced trade folks. Expert results require experts.
The pictures of stunningly decorated Christmas cookies on social media got me. The Instagram reels and YouTube videos make it look easy. It’s not.
They say smiling faces don’t often tell the truth, but smirking cookies do. The only consolation I take in any of this is that the cookies were quite tasty. I learned that from a smirking cookie…after I bit his smirking little head right off.
Merry Christmas!
